


And I Get Back Up Again

by turps



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, killjoys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The immediate aftermath of a Drac attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Get Back Up Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to crowgirl13 and themoononastick for the read through.
> 
> As far as I know Dr Death Defying's disability hasn't been explained. In this story he's a double below the knee amputee. Which means this contains descriptions of leg stumps and how they look and feel ( these descriptions are not used in a sexual nature). Please, if that disturbs you, don't read.

The truth is, most of the time Show Pony forgets that Dr Death Defying is disabled at all. He knows that he is, that’s hard to forget when they’re surrounded by crutches and a wheelchair, the fact that each morning he watches as Dr Death buckles on both of his legs. But that knowledge isn’t the same as seeing.

To Show Pony he’s just Dr Death. A voice on the air waves, an inspiration, a rallying call in the middle of hell. A body to curl against, a hand to hold onto, laughter and whiskered kisses.

He’s Show Pony’s home, his heart, and right now he’s crawling. On hands and knees over a blood-splattered floor, expression set and determined, arms shaking and pants trailing as he pulls himself up onto his stumps.

The Dracs have taken Dr Death’s legs and Show Pony hates them. It’s not enough that they did it once, blasting away flesh and blood and bone, now they’ve done it again. It’s the ultimate in cruelty, and Show Pony burns for vengeance. He bites at his own lip through the gag, teeth against dirty fabric as he fights for control.

“Hold on,” Dr Death says, and he’s groping for the knife he keeps hidden. Show Pony can see it, the blade glinting behind the ruins of the radio, and he wills Dr Death forward.

The Dracs made a mistake leaving him untied. They always do, like a man in a wheelchair is no threat. Which is bullshit, the Drac lying on the floor is testament to that, its white suit charred and still smoking. If he could Show Pony would spit in its direction, aim for the gawping mouth, or better still, bring his wheels down hard on its body.

Mostly Show Pony keeps his hatred locked down. Their lives are hard enough without spending every moment seething. Plus, he likes to dance, or skate the highways, to be there to meet the people who turn up at the diner. It’s his own fucked-up extended family, and he loves every member. It’s that he holds close, not the hate or fear.

That doesn’t mean it’s not there.

“Got it,” Dr Death says, his fingertips against the blade. He pulls it forward, through smashed parts and trailing wires until he can wrap his fingers around the hilt. Dr Death drops down and crawls.

His pants swish against the floor as he does so, empty fabric ending at the rounds of his stumps, and Show Pony knows the Dracs thought this was funny. The voice of the rebellion brought down to his knees, the Dracs laughing as they tore off his legs and held them aloft, celebrating like they’d won some kind of victory.

They hadn’t. They haven’t. They never fucking will.

“Stay still,” Dr Death says, and he’s resting his body against Show Pony’s thigh, steadying himself as he pulls off the gag and then eases the knife between skin and the twine that’s wrapped around Show Pony’s wrists. It’s pulled tight, cutting in and the saw of the blade makes it worse, but Show Pony doesn’t move.

The Dracs made a mistake leaving him alive. They’ll live to regret that.

“We need to get out a warning,” Dr Death says, steadily working at the twine. “They’re regrouping and I don’t like it.”

Neither does Show Pony. Especially when the Killjoys are out on a run and vulnerable. He hisses when finally the twine is cut through, his wrists throbbing as he flexes his fingers.

“Here.” Dr Death hands over the knife and turns, heading for his wheelchair that’s tipped on its side.

The knife is home made, a bone handle connected to a wicked blade. Show Pony grips tight as he slices through the twine that’s wrapped around his ankles, sawing through the multiple loops. A last cut and the twine loosens, and Show Pony looks at the ruins of his leggings, the lycra torn and bloody.

Rubbing at exposed welts, Show Pony stands and sticks the knife in the wall, then skates for the door. Busy righting his wheelchair, Dr Death says, “Be careful.”

“I will,” Show Pony promises, listening before he goes outside. It’s quiet, no sound of engines or the Drac’s creepy breathing. There’s tire tracks in the dirt outside, a Drac dead close to the pumps, but all Show Pony focuses on are Dr Death’s legs that are lying at the base of a dune.

Hurrying, he picks his way over the sand and scoops them both up. Checking straps and buckles he’s relieved that not only do they seem fine, but that the stump covers are still tucked inside. Which is good, because the covers are vital, and a bitch to get made.

A leg in each hand, Show Pony goes back inside, and finds Dr Death in his wheelchair, his pants legs hanging empty as he shifts through the parts of his radio, assessing the damage.

“You find them?”

It’s a casual question but Show Pony hears the fear, mobility always an issue in this place. He glides around the pool of Drac blood and drops to his knees.

“They’d thrown them in a dune.” Show Pony gets comfortable, legs behind him and ass on the ground, his feet turned to accommodate his skates. It’s a position that’s second nature now and he takes hold of the bottom of Dr Death’s pants leg, pushing it up.

“I can do that,” Dr Death says gruffly, his hands still over an array of smashed parts.

Show Pony, looks up, says, “I know.” And he does, Dr Death doesn’t need anyone’s help but that doesn’t mean he won’t get it. Careful, Show Pony brushes dirt off the stump of Dr Death’s right leg, fingers gentle over the puckered scars and the skin that always remains angry, irritated by the constant grit of sand, no matter how well they pad the straps of his artificial legs.

Giving in to an impulse, Show Pony folds forward, his cheek against Dr Death’s knee, his hand cupping the end of the stump. He can feel the metal plate that caps the bone, hard lines and rough skin as familiar as Show Pony’s own body.

“You need to go to the next outpost, get the word out,” Dr Death says, and for a moment he rests his hand on Show Pony’s shoulder, his thumb moving against his neck. “I’ll work on fixing this.”

Show Pony allows himself a moment to indulge in the touch, but then straightens, lining up the right artificial leg and efficiently fitting cover and strap. He buckles and tightens, pulls down Dr Death’s pants leg before moving onto the left.

Each movement efficient, sure, as he brushes away dirt and lines up the leg, buckles and fastens and finally stands.

Dr Death stands too, his hand braced against his chair as he pulls Show Pony into a sudden one-armed hug. One that's all strength and love as he says, “Skate safe, roller baby.”

Show Pony rests his head against Dr Death’s shoulder, says, “Always.”


End file.
